Sleeping rough. Losing weight. Someone stole my phone. Can't get my stuff...

Dear Anonymous,

Sleeping rough. Losing weight. Someone stole my phone. Can't get my stuff. Emotionally exhausted. Emotionally exhausting. Pierce through that at any moment and you'll find a heart.
The young kid? Black eye healing. Talking rat- a- tat about this and that and his friend down in the park and the girl he was with that had broken quarantine and got hauled away by the police, or winds up at the ER. Pierce through that at any point and you find a heart.
And the guy folded over sitting on the curb staring at his feet? With stories of FBI infiltration and how they sprayed us back in February as a mass control conspiracy? Pierce through that at any seam and you'll find a heart.
Broken. Wobbly. Injured. Beating irregularly. But that heart will beat with yours for just this moment. Heartbeat of these streets.

He reminds me of many young men I have met...

Dear Anonymous,

He reminds me of many young men I have met. Handsome. Young. So young. Stories of lives detoured by drugs. Colleges left. Classes abandoned. Families distanced. The siren of heroin. The mistress who will not be refused easily. It may not be his exact story but some of the refrains are so familiar. The despondency cloaked as survival skill.

He shows me he still has the mask he requested from me last week. Tucked away safely in his pocket. To use on the bus. He shows me.

So many young men. And women. Derailed. I am fortunate, blessed really, to know many that have flourished in recovery. And their about-faces hold me in these moments. Not that I insist it should be any different than it is, but that it CAN be.
Maybe there really is a season, and a time for every purpose, under heaven.

Struggling. Stresses mount up. Smaller stresses connect to larger stresses. To traumas...

Dear Anonymous,
Struggling. Stresses mount up. Smaller stresses connect to larger stresses. To traumas. Become unmanageable. Highly charged. And then it's desperate. Simply what it looks like from here. Behind my mask.
Racing ahead in established patterns and trying to push pause in newer ones. The drama on the street. The drama in a heart. How we escalate and stand convicted to our efforts and then add escalation in defense. Simply what it looks like from here. Behind my mask. I recognize this thing we humans do. Heartache on the corner.

He comes by this morning to say hello. Has his own place now. Livin' the dream...

Dear Anonymous,
He comes by this morning to say hello. Has his own place now. Livin' the dream. I mentioned he looks so much better than he did deep into last winter.
He says,
'Yeah. You mean when I was hating life?'
Then, the way he lit a cigarette for the man with a bloodied face who stumbles by. The cigarette had already fallen out once, barely noticed but then picked up again. Fumbling, swollen, stiff fingers, clenching soiled bags. A back pack falling off his shoulders.
So he cups his hands tenderly around the end of the cigarette dangling from the man's lips. Like a benediction. And shelters that little flame as it casts a brief glow beneath that drawn up hood. He takes a grateful drag.

That's what love looks like sometimes.

Elephant, Rabbit, Dog and Levi were all reunited. Sure they were tattered and torn...

Elephant, Rabbit, Dog and Levi were all reunited.
Sure they were tattered and torn. Ripped and stitched together.
They ALL were. And not one amongst them was not broken in some way. But no one noticed. They sang. They told stories. They found great comfort together.And the next right thing always seemed to be a tea party.

Levi the Leopard #23/24

That long winter finally turned to Spring. And that’s when Layla’s long search ended...

That long winter finally turned to Spring. And that’s when Layla’s long search ended and she finally found her Levi. He had lost an ear. And an eye. His nose was gone and only a few stitches remained of his mouth. Patches of his fur had worn off. He was threadbare and broken.
Levi could not have looked more beautiful to her.

Levi the Leopard #16/24

An older photograph. But very happy to report he has communicated that he has a home.

Dear Anonymous,

An older photograph. But very happy to report he has communicated that he has a home. A beautiful apartment. And a bed. And food. And heat. He was so happy....
Small miracle. Thank you AMISTAD.

Well, it was a long, cold winter...

Well, it was a long, cold winter. Levi lost one of his eyes but with his other eye he could stare up at the winter sky and see the beautiful stars. Those twinkling stars kept him company most nights. Most days he thought of Layla and tea parties.
He wondered how she was. Where she was. And, would there ever be another tea party?

Levi the Leopard #15

Levi the Leopard missed home. Actually all his friends in the dumpster missed home...

Levi the Leopard missed home. Actually all his friends in the dumpster missed home. Finding a way out seemed impossible.
They talked and they dreamed and then they had an idea.

Levi the Leopard #13

And then, even in the dark dumpster, Levi recognized them...

And then, even in the dark dumpster, Levi recognized them. All his buddies from the toy store shelf. All of them were torn and tattered. They were grimy and stained. And each of them had something to offer. Elephant, who lost his eyes, could still remember everything. So he told the stories that kept them all alive. Dog was the one singing and he helped keep their spirits up. Bunny was able to stuff stuffing back into all of them and did her best to tie on what was falling off.
They may have all been broken but all Levi could see was family.

Levi the Leopard #12

Another excerpt from TRANSIENCE by Kenneth W Beek:

Another excerpt from TRANSIENCE by Kenneth W Beek.

'The meeting with my new caseworker might have lasted an hour, which left three hours to kill before dinner. I sat and read. I was reading Nietzsche’s ​Beyond Good and Evil​ at the time. That’s a heavy book, especially when you’re reading it in a crowd of crazy people.

That may seem like an insensitive thing to say, but it would be far more insensitive to pretend it isn’t so. There were hordes of people yelling, arguing, fighting. This is the perpetual Preble Street scene. About every five minutes someone is robbed and every half hour or so you see somebody assaulted. I’ve seen people hit with bricks, boards, canes, bottles, bags; I’ve seen shootings and stabbings, seizures, suicides, OD’s, heart attacks, bad trips, people lit on fire, people pissing and shitting and fucking right on and around the galvanized benches in the resource center’s courtyard.'

Truth teller. Writer. Witness. Thank you Kenneth W Beek.
Here's a link to his book:

https://mainernews.com/transcience/
A friend of Kenny's. 

This is Kenneth W Beek. And this is a photograph of him from several years ago.

This is Kenneth W Beek. And this is a photograph of him from several years ago.
He is a gifted writer, in my humble opinion. Truth teller. Please consider reading his book, or even just a chapter of his book TRANSIENCE. A powerful account that neither glamorizes or patronizes; a witnessing of homelessness in Portland, Maine from the inside. Well written. And well written... on an ancient cell phone with cracked screen and no internet.
Maine. https://mainernews.com/transcience

Keen insights. An expansive heart.

This is Kenneth W Beek who I met on the streets years ago. He is one of the reasons I kept going back. Because he had a lot to offer. Keen insights. An expansive heart.
He told me on this day, slurring his words 'I'm not on the streets because I drink. I drink because I'm on the streets.' And, this IS his truth. He is currently housed and does not drink.
He has written a book that's available online and I am attaching a link and hoping some of you will take a look. It is extensive and articulate.This is a comment he wrote this morning in response to a post:
'It's difficult to know how you will react or behave in the most extreme situations, even when consequences can be severe. That's what I was attempting to portray, that and also how most of the people I encountered in my life on the streets maintained what can really only be described as honor and integrity, a reasonable moral code. Those were two very important pieces of the story for me.'
Please consider reading his book TRANSIENCE: Chapters from an epic memoir about homeless existence in Portland, Maine. The link to TRANSIENCE is pasted below. Free.
Congratulations, Kenneth W Beek.

Note: A quotation from Kenneth regarding the book: 'I did write the book (and a whole lot more) in a beat up and discarded cell phone with a broken screen and no internet connection.'
A whole lot of us gotta' get busy and drop the sniveling excuses. ( me )

https://mainernews.com/transcience/

I wonder about Joe and if he is okay in a world turned a bit inside out.

Dear Anonymous,

This is Joe. This is an image from years ago when I would encounter Joe on my first light forays near the waterfront. He was always kind to me. I wonder about Joe and if he is okay in a world turned a bit inside out.

Last week he tells me from across the street that he'd like more anti-microbial wipes if I have any. I did because of you Dear Anonymous.

Last week he tells me from across the street that he'd like more anti-microbial wipes if I have any. I did because of you Dear Anonymous. He was using them on the bus even though the bus driver was also wiping surfaces down.
'I wipe down what I can before I sit down. I wipe down everywhere I touch before I leave... The bus driver thanked me.'
On another day at another time I would have hugged him, or maybe just put my hand on his arm to acknowledge that I heard that last part.

'The bus driver thanked me.'
That held such tenderness. I remember wilting.

Instead I left the wipes, and a coffee card and clean socks
( which he recycles where he shelters, so that they can be washed and used again ) on the granite step where he will walk and pick them up.

I will remain wondering if he knows how buoyed I was by his response.

Everyone distant. Everyone thick as thieves. Love arrows arcing through the air covered in masks and gloves.

It was dark this morning. Sodden with half a foot of spring snow. Poor man's fertilizer. I think of Maple snow. And I think of the men at the ferry terminal. Displaced and without home are congregating as they do every morning. This morning? They actually are maintaining to 6' distances. This makes me so happy. I leave a bag of socks and coffee cards they distribute amongst themselves.
A tip of the hat, some really sweet responses through the air.
Everyone distant. Everyone thick as thieves. Love arrows arcing through the air covered in masks and gloves.

'It's not always pretty. But we sing.'

Dear Anonymous,
Remembering a day when he turned around before heading back to a group of men at the ferry terminal and shouted to me,
'We sing to each other.'
He stood there. Looking at me. Vulnerable and strong simultaneously.

And I recall stopping in my tracks. Feeling this was a gift we do not all have in our lives. I was also dumbstruck that he took the time to turn around and share.
I know it's completely transferential because I consider music divine and intimate and am happy for them and I say
'That's so wonderful you have that.' and, damn, I mean it.
He responds
'It's not always pretty. But we sing.'
and walks around the corner.

I imagine this choir of brokenness, loss and joy, of defiance and stubbornness, of grime and pain, of love and darkness ...and part of me is so deeply jealous in the finest of ways.
I hope they sing now. Chorus after chorus. I hope they sing.

He doesn't like the camera much. But that day, a year or so ago, he gave permission.

Dear Anonymous,

He doesn't like the camera much. But that day, a year or so ago, he gave permission. Gave himself to the image. The moment held a gravitas for me.
I had just been asked to read a letter to him from his mom. The carefully scripted handwritten letter was worn and wilted from the repeated crumpling from fist to pocket and back again.
It was full of love.
It was full of I love you son.
And I fell in love too.
All of us wanting to go home.

Oh, the heartbreaking complexity of our human hearts.

Where I have found you sleeping in the past.

Where I have found you sleeping in the past.

One man recently had his playlist blasting from his phone. It was before 6 AM.

One man recently had his playlist blasting from his phone. It was before 6 AM. I notice he looks better than he has recently. Clear eyed and upright. Attentive this morning when commonly he cannot manage eye contact. Off in a world of use I am outside of. This morning though he is clear and his voice rings out. 'Been clean 2 and a half weeks!'
I congratulate him heartily and let him know we can see that and he says earnestly 'I'm trying.' and manages a smile. The music continues like it’s an audible shelter, like it creates a cocoon to protect his soft vulnerable body.
Man, I wish him the best in these times.